


Captured

by carefulwiththatwolfwhistle (ashinan)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-30 11:23:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashinan/pseuds/carefulwiththatwolfwhistle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek wakes to a flickering light on the ceiling and an overpowering scent of mildew. He doesn't know where he is. And he doesn't know if anyone is coming to rescue him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Captured

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the lovely [outcorner](http://outercorner.tumblr.com/)!

Derek isn’t usually a light sleeper. With everything that’s happened in his life since the fire, it’s surprising that he can sleep through the night at all. But when he inevitably falls into his bed, it’s to a deep slumber that Isaac would classify as ‘zombie-esque’. When Derek falls asleep, his blurry grey ceiling and the comfy indulgence of his favourite pillows are the last things he remembers.

It’s the same for when he wakes up. Except for this time because this is most definitely not his loft and his pillow fortress has been replaced with tiled linoleum, cracked and smelling strongly of mildew. His ceiling is a flickering light, bright and then dim, and it hurts his eyes to even look at it. He tries to roll over and his shoulder protests loudly, to such a degree that the ceiling greys out and he’s left panting into the air. It’s then that Derek realizes he’s tied up.

What the fuck.

Struggling leads to another fresh flood of pain, and his shoulder is obviously trying to heal but can’t with the way he’s practically gift wrapped. He feels uncharacteristically weak as well. When he tries to transform, the pain intensifies. His hands are completely numb, snug against his lower back, and his legs aren’t any better.

A harsh clanging starts up off to his top left and he can’t turn to face the threat, whatever it is. The light flickers, over and over, and Derek’s stomach roils in agitation. The clanging gets louder and something scrapes against the floor; a door opens, and Derek rolls his eyes to try and catch sight of his aggressor.

He doesn’t get a chance as he’s smartly knocked unconscious with what definitely feels like a metal bar.

 

The second time he wakes up, he’s almost certain that he’s had a terrible nightmare. Then the flickering light burns against his eyes and he realizes he’s still in it. At least his shoulder doesn’t hurt anymore.

Wriggling doesn’t send him into a coma, so he rolls over onto his stomach and manages to get to his knees.  The mildew smell makes him gag and he peers around at his makeshift prison. White tiles pepper the floor, cracked and broken. The walls change to a pattern of off-white and almost translucent green, which lead up to a stucco ceiling. That infuriating fluorescent light flickers dead center, flashing everything into stark and uncomfortable focus every five seconds. Derek squints against it, taking in the disused and obviously broken sink, the shower stall with the curtain ripped half off, and the toilet.

Frowning, he shuffles to look at it closer. It’s surprisingly clean compared to the rest of his prison, and the water flushes clear. His tongue feels swollen in his mouth and he shakes his head, berating himself for contemplating _actually drinking_  toilet water. He’s not a dog, not matter how many times Erica pats his head.

The reminder of Erica and, subsequently, Boyd, squeezes at something in his chest. They’d been heading out more and more frequently the last few months, to be with Scott and Stiles, to create bonds with Lydia and Allison. Isaac had started following them just last week. Derek wonders if they even know he’s gone.

He sits back on his heels, exhaustion suddenly overwhelming. The side of his face is tacky with dried blood, the wound his unknown assailant inflicted on him not fully healed. His pack. Would they notice his absence? Would they realize he’d been taken? Or would he live out the rest of his days (however few they are) trapped in this off white broken bathroom without them once realizing he’d been captured?

The thought makes him swallow. He grits his teeth and his nails bite into his palms. Scott will be a good makeshift alpha until they can find a born one. He’s strong. He’ll take care of everyone. Derek will fight to survive but there’s comfort in knowing that Scott will take care of his pack when he falls. In the meanwhile though, he’ll do his damndest to take his captors down with him.

Breathing through his nose, he starts working on the rope tied tight around his wrists and forearms. The bindings dig into his skin. He casts about for something to help him with and the shards of broken tile catch his eye.

He manages to just barely get one between his fingers when the clanging starts up again. He can’t pinpoint the source this time, the ringing everywhere at once. The noise stops, and the door to his far right opens, scraping against worn tile and screeching on unoiled hinges. A woman walks through, black cowl wrapped around her face, obscuring everything but angry brown eyes. A steel bar roughly the size of Derek’s forearm taps against her thigh.

“Good morning, pet,” she says, voice heavily accented. Derek bares his teeth at her as she strides forward. His legs are still working; he might be able to take her out that way. Not to mention the shard curled in his palm. She’s close enough for him to strike out at when she says, “They won’t come for you. They don’t care about you. So why bother fighting?”

That causes him pause and costs him precious time. The bar whistles as it swings and when he hits the ground with a thud, the woman crouches down beside him. “We’ll kill you nice and slow, wolf. Don’t you worry. We need the practice.” And she brings the bar down on him again.

The edges fuzz out and Derek feels overwhelmingly grateful that his pack isn’t coming for him. They’d just be walking to their deaths. And he won’t be responsible for that.

He won’t plead for his though.

 

These people, they don’t talk to him after that. They don’t do anything but enter the room and beat him until he can’t think straight, until he’s curled up in the corner spitting blood and mucus on the mildewy tiles, until he’s screaming for them to stop and dry heaving when they leave. They don’t feed him, they don’t water him; he can’t shift with the voodoo ropes around his arms caging the wolf in.

He sits in his broken bathroom, and time wheels around him. His pack isn’t coming. And that’s okay. His pack is safe. That’s for the best.  

 

He’s getting really sick of waking up to the smell of mildew and the constant feeling of pain. He will personally go on a cleaning vendetta against the stuff. Groaning, he presses his cheek to the sweat-slick tiles. His bathroom will never have this pattern. Ever.

Swallowing against the sandpaper that is his throat, he tries to remember when was the last time he saw one of his captors. Yesterday? The day before? He hasn’t moved from the corner since the woman smashed his knees in with that bar of hers. At least the pain has dulled.

And then he hears the commotion.

Focusing, it sounds a lot like someone getting beaten up. He’s intimately familiar with that sound by now. Struggling gets him nowhere except massively nauseous, so he can’t do more than peer at the corner of the door.

The fighting moves closer, louder, cries of pain and angry slurs being thrown. There’s a yelp, followed by a shouted, “Don’t let her –!” before the side door bangs open and a man collapses just at the threshold.

Unable to see the perpetrator, he manages to catch sight of a pair of stilettoes that he’s been goddamn conditioned to recognize. His heart jumps. They’ve come for him. They’ve –

“Erica? Is that you?” Derek scratches out, and his voice barely manages to sound above the hissing light. Erica finally comes into his line of sight, lip split and eyes wide with worry. Her hair curls, tacky and clumped, around a smeared scrape along her cheek and down the line of her jaw. When a man comes rushing through the door at her, she ducks, grabs him by the collar, and flips him over her shoulder. A quick blow to the temple with those insane heels and he’s out cold.

“Miss me, Boss Man?” she asks, claws snapping out as she crouches down beside him. She frowns at the intricate ropes, fingers trailing over his skin. “You’re in terrible shape, Derek. What are these things?”

“I have no idea but they have an effect on my ability to heal and transform. Get them  _off_.” Derek struggles weakly, panting at the exertion, and Erica goes about releasing him. “Did you come alone?”

“Psh, I wish. I could’ve taken out this entire compound. No, everyone is here. Isaac and Boyd are taking out the guards, Lydia has managed to lock down the building, and Allison is picking off strays.”

Derek swallows. “Scott and Stiles?”

“Off to capture the Big Boss of course. Which is why we need you in fighting condition because god knows those two will fuck it up.” A sharp bite of pain lances up Derek’s bound arms and he grits his teeth to stop from crying out. “Sorry, the ropes have kind of healed into your skin and this is really, really gross.”

“Free my legs first,” Derek says. They’d all come for him. His heart won’t quiet.

Erica goes back to working on his arms and the pain turns his world fuzzy and grey. She’s close to finishing up the knots around his thumbs when that damnable clang starts up again. Derek’s head jerks up in alarm. “Erica, get out of here. Now.”

“That’s cute, but no. I almost got this,” Erica says, pink tongue caught between too long teeth.

“Erica, listen to me. You can’t fight this woman. Get out, now. Do it!”

“She’s the one that took you, yeah? Don’t worry, I’ll give her a good show.”

Erica stands and Derek wants to howl at her in frustration. The woman comes sprinting through the door full tilt, catching Erica in the stomach and sending her hurtling back into the sink. Erica’s exhale of pain as she falls to the floor renews Derek’s strength and he strains against his fraying bonds. Erica coughs, struggling to her knees, and blood drips from her lips onto the marred tile.

The woman shifts her stance, the metal bar sliding in her grasp, and she rushes Erica again. Erica gets one foot under her and ducks under the first swing, catching the woman around the middle and toppling them both to the floor. Derek feels one of the knots give and dislocates his shoulder getting the rest of the damn ropes off. He can’t snap it back into place by himself, but he can help.

The duo roll, the woman coming out on top and slamming the bar into the ground by Erica’s ear. Erica snarls, jamming her fingers into the woman’s clothed stomach. She doesn’t flinch, just keeps trying to brain Erica, and Derek finally manages to get to his feet and launch himself at his captor. She doesn’t have time to guard against him, and they both go tumbling to the ground, Derek almost blacking out when his shoulder hits first. The woman rolls easily to her feet but Erica pops up in front of her, her fist slamming into the woman’s face and sending her reeling back against the toilet.

Erica slides forward, deadly and partially changed, and disarms the woman before she can get her bearings. With a quick snap, she knocks the woman’s head against the top of the toilet, letting her crumple to the ground with a snort of disdain.

“Bloody hunters,” she says, before stretching her arms above her head. Derek gets his fist under him and flops onto his back, panting. “Hey, thanks for the save. You okay?”

“Dislocated shoulder,” Derek says, wincing. Erica helps him to his feet, careful not to jar him too much, and leads him out the door. She latches it closed behind her, securing the lock. Derek clutches at his arm and nods at her as she strides by him.

The compound rings silent, almost oppressively on Derek’s ears. He swallows and tries to ignore the nausea his wounds are causing. He hasn’t eaten in what feels like weeks. He’s not sure how much longer his voice will hold out at this rate. He feels weak and sickly, like a newborn pup.

Erica turns a corner and there’s a shriek that has Derek’s hackles up. He steps back, ready to bolt, when he hears, “Jesus, Erica, warn a guy!”

Turning the corner, he finds Erica and Stiles almost nose to nose, Erica’s finger jabbing Stiles in the chest. “You two were supposed to catch and restrain the person in charge of this whole shitshow. What happened?”

“Well, the others we caught said she went to get Derek, so we were heading down there to meet you. I see you’ve saved our own Big Bad.” Stiles smiles at him, and Derek takes in the blood stained bat; takes in the bleeding claw marks and angry bruises marring too human flesh. They’d come for him, had been hurt for him, and Derek can’t swallow anymore.

“You mean the ninja chick?” Erica asks. Stiles walks by her and lugs one of Derek’s arms over his shoulder. Derek tries not to sag against him. “She’s locked up where Derek was held. Where’s Scott?”

“Getting Boyd and the others. We’ll meet them there, I guess.”

Stiles grunts, dragging Derek forward. Derek tries a grin. “Are you sure your scrawny self can carry me?”

Stiles glares at him, but there’s no malice in his gaze. “You were kidnapped by the Italian mob and you still sass me? There’s no gratitude with you werewolves.”

“At least I have muscle mass.”

Stiles sticks out his tongue and tugs him forward, following in Erica’s wake. Derek’s world begins fuzzing again, grey dashed against black, and his stomach twists in knots. Stiles’ warmth along his side combats the pain he’s consistently been in, and he wants to climb closer, cling and never let go. His head knocks gently against Stiles’ when he momentarily loses sight. Stiles jostles him, says…something, and Derek tries to swallow against the fire in his throat.

A ringing starts up in his ears, and when he blinks his eyes wide, Erica’s in front of him. Her hands press against his cheeks, ice cold, and he flinches from her touch. Stiles hasn’t moved from his side, fingers cool against the skin of his hip, and he sags forward momentarily. He can’t stay focused. He tries swallowing again and he can’t.

Erica taps his cheek, lips moving soundlessly, and everything feels heavy and unnatural. The markings on his arms burn. Erica’s hair glows and suddenly Stiles’ face moves in beside hers, the grip on his waist tightening to a painful degree. He stutters out a breathe and sways on the spot.

Everything goes dark to the sound of panicked shouting.


End file.
